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27 Crows in a Locust Tree The bad angels are back, come once more, And not a moment too soon, to sway these feet From the clumsy paths of righteousness, where we have Danced all night before the Lord, putting our faith In the funky chicken and the pigeonwing. It’s good to hear, deep in this purifying breeze, The greasy trumpets of their tongues break down The day’s defense against darkness, and good to see A settling of feathers on every bough, black fruit Among the white clusters of the locust bloom. You can stone the leaves to a green flutter, Or even, like Arabs beating their breakfast from The olive branches of Gethsemane, take a stick To the stout trunk. But the birds don’t stir— No pinions lift; no shaken nerve betrays them. Ornaments of evil on the plague tree, They hang above us, bringing news from on high— Let the wicked rejoice in their sins, and the swine Lie down with rats at the midnight revel. The dove is dead. The crow is born again. ...

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